Laurence steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Tell me about you.”
She stabbed at a scallop. “There’s nothing much to tell.”
“Now, that I don’t believe for a minute. You’re a mystery, Angel Evans. So far I know where you live...”
Thank God he didn’t. The mere thought of Laurence rocking up to her tatty caravan was enough to bring Angel out in a most unladylike sweat.
“I know your family has a penchant for Sunseekers...”
The Alexshovs were more or less her family, Angel reasoned. She worked for them, after all, which made them her family she worked for. It wasn’t a fib.
“And I now know that you don’t like scallops,” he finished, reaching across the table and gently removing the fork from her grasp. “But apart from that, you are an enigma.”
“You’ve summed me up,” agreed Angel swiftly. “How were your mussels?”
But Laurence wasn’t going to be put off that easily. “You already know that I’m an idle aristo happy to fritter away my inheritance,” he continued, “but what do you do when you’re not with your family? You mentioned your London pad. Where is it? Kensington? Chelsea? If so, I’m amazed they haven’t snapped you up for MIC.” He pulled a mock-sad face. “Apparently, I was far too wooden!”
Made in Tooting Bec hardly had the same ring to it. Crossing her fingers and hoping that the nuns at school had been wrong about eternal hellfire and damnation, Angel said, “Clapham, actually.” Well, Andi had lived there, hadn’t she? Even if it was in the crappy bit. Since they were sisters it was practically the same thing.
He nodded. “Up and coming, I know. That’s a smart investment. And do you live with friends?”
“Just my flatmate, Gemma,” said Angel. “She’s a model.”
Laurence looked suitably impressed. Angel just hoped he never met Gemma or came across that advert for control pants.
“And what about you?” he was asking. “Do you model?”
Although in her fantasies Angel did indeed give Lily and Cara a run for their money, in reality (which was sadly where she lived most of the time) she was far too short to model anything except stilts.
“I work in fashion and beauty,” she hedged, which was almost true.
Laurence looked dangerously as though he was on the brink of asking her more about this, but a waiter glided over to clear their table and the moment was lost. Steering the conversation back into safer waters, Angel let him chat about Kenniston Hall and his mother. Laurence was totally devoted to both and as he described the antics of his forebears he became very animated.
“So the Fifth Viscount nearly lost the entire place on the turn of the dice,” he finished. “Luckily for the family, his wife shot the cards off the table with a blunderbuss, or we’d have been homeless. He went down in history as the Elliott who nearly lost the family seat.” A shadow flickered over his face. “Not a good legacy. Nobody wants to be the heir who loses the place. That’s not going to happen on my watch.”
“It must be quite a responsibility, inheriting a family seat,” Angel observed.
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “You could say so. Sometimes I think it might have been easier to be a media mogul or a city boy. Still, enough of that. Here’s the main course. And doesn’t it look wonderful?”
Wonderful wasn’t quite the adjective that sprang to mind. Angel stared at the enormous lobster, Katie Price pink and still complete with claws, antennae and beady black eyes, gazing resentfully up at her. While the waiter draped a snowy white napkin over her lap, all she could think was how the hell was she supposed to eat the thing? It was still in its bloody shell!
The truth was that Angel had never eaten a lobster in her life. She’d only ordered it tonight because it was a) expensive and b) the sort of thing she imagined wealthy people ate. The embarrassing truth was that the only fish Angel liked tended to be smothered in batter and served with big fat chips – which, Angel had decided, wasn’t quite the chosen dish of a viscount’s dinner companion. Angel felt close to panic. She’d assumed there would be somebody on hand to serve it up to her, but instead all she had was a small mallet and something that looked like a pickaxe.
Oh God. She’d wanted dinner, not a mining expedition.
“Is everything all right?” Laurence looked concerned when she didn’t dive into the lobster. If in fact this was what she was meant to do? Angel didn’t have a clue. Did she wallop it? Tap it? Call a vet?
She bit her lip. This was it. One lobster and her cover was blown. If she got this wrong, gorgeous, titled Laurence would realise within seconds that she wasn’t quite the sophisticated seafood-eating woman she’d made herself out to be.
“That’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he said admiringly. “I adore lobster.”
Angel almost asked him why, in that case, he’d plumped for goujons of lemon sole, grilled with sea salt and lime. Then she had a brainwave of such genius that she thought it a miracle Mensa didn’t sign her on the spot.
“Then why don’t you share it with me?” she suggested. “There’s far more than I can eat. Besides, I’ll struggle to even get into it with these!” She held up her brand new acrylics and waggled her fingers at him. Saved by her nails! Andi was wrong yet again: good acrylics really were an investment.
Laurence raised an eyebrow. “They look lethal. Fear not, I’d be delighted to do the honours.”
He set about the lobster with all the deft skill of a surgeon in theatre while Angel watched avidly. So that was how it was done. Honestly, if only they had taught lobster dissection in school rather than all those theories and formulae. Angel had yet to come across a use for quadratic equations but couldn’t help thinking that being able to disembowel a lobster would have been very helpful indeed.
Once the lobster was dealt with, dinner passed in a blur of ice-cold champagne and delicious white flesh, which Laurence fed to her. When his fingertips brushed against her lips Angel had the strongest desire to lick the entire digit. She tried hard to distract herself with walnut tart and crème fraiche, but nothing was working. By the time the bill arrived all she could think about was the smooth skin of Laurence’s neck and how it might feel beneath her lips. He smelt wonderful too, of something spicy and oriental and expensive that was making her senses reel and her head spin. Or maybe this was the champagne? Whatever the cause, Angel was no longer worried. She just wanted Laurence to whisk her away to his beautiful house, sweep her into his arms, carry her up the stairs and...
One of waiters, who had been attempting a transaction with Laurence’s flash platinum card, cleared his throat nervously. “I’m sorry, My Lord, but there appears to be a problem with your card.”
Laurence raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “Not this again. I swear, the incompetence of these high-street banks is becoming a monumental bore. How many times do I have to pop into them and explain how estate finances work?”
Angel had no idea how estates finances operated either. To be honest her own were quite enough trouble to be getting on with, but she rolled her eyes and pulled a sympathetic face.
“How else would you like to pay, My Lord?”
“Washing-up?” Laurence joked wryly. At least, Angel hoped he was joking. Apart from the fact that she was sporting brand new acrylics, her sharp brain had just worked out that their bill must run to at least £400. That was a lot of washing-up by anyone’s standards…
“Or might the amount be charged to an alternative card, perhaps?” suggested the waiter helpfully, glancing first at Laurence and then at Angel.
Angel nearly fell off her seat with terror. The last time she’d checked her bank balance she’d needed a stiff drink to recover.
Luckily, though, Laurence was equally appalled by the idea of Angel paying the bill.
“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “And I wouldn’t dream of asking the lady, in case anyone was thinking that,” he added firmly.
The waiter looked as though he was thinking that the bill need
ed to be settled. Angel felt weak with horror. Why, oh why, had she insisted on ordering that sodding lobster and drinking expensive champagne? She was starting to wish she had never suggested they visit Stein’s at all. Laurence had floated the idea of an evening picnic – which, romantic as it sounded, hadn’t the kudos of being seen at an award-winning restaurant. Now, though, she was wishing she’d gone for the romance.
“Don’t look so worried, Angel.” Laurence reached across and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Things like this happen when your funds come from a family trust.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his BlackBerry. “I’ll give my personal banker a bell. He’ll move some funds around for me.” He made eye contact with the waiter. “This chap and I will have a chat first and then we can sort it out. Here, there’s still some champagne left. Why don’t you relax with that while I call my banker?”
Laurence took the waiter aside, presumably to discuss the banking details, and then went outside to make the call. Angel, still a bit shaken by her close escape from scouring Rick Stein’s saucepans, downed the remaining champagne in a swift and very unladylike manner. She caught a glimpse of Laurence through the window and frowned; he was shaking his head and gesticulating wildly as he spoke.
“Is everything all right?” she asked on his return.
Laurence smiled at her, a slow sexy smile that made her insides melt like the crème fraiche on her walnut tart.
“Of course. Nothing my banker can’t sort. He’s wiring money straight to the restaurant now, in fact.” He sat back down opposite her, his long legs folding themselves beneath the snowy tablecloth, and reached out to take her hands in his. In a slow and measured movement he raised her fingers to his lips and brushed his mouth against them. Her pulse quickened. She didn’t think she had ever felt like this before.
“So, beautiful Angel,” he whispered, holding her gaze with those sea-storm eyes. “How about we take a taxi back to my house in Rock? If you’d like to, that is?”
If she’d like to? Angel was desperate to see Laurence’s house. In fact she could hardly wait! And maybe once they were alone he would finally kiss her?
“Laurence,” she said, smiling up at him through a double row of Eylure’s finest,“l’d love to go back to yours!”
Chapter 22
Over the next few days following her calamitous encounter with Callum South and her slightly less disastrous meeting with the ladies at the RNLI cake sale, Gemma’s life had taken on a rather surreal bent.
Angel and Andi were both busy with work (although in Angel’s case “work” was a loose term), and after days of moping Gemma had started to find the caravan claustrophobic. She’d stayed in her bunk for an entire day, reliving her humiliation on a masochistic loop, drinking White Grenache and hanging out with the only man who never let her down – good old Mr Kipling. Gemma really could have done with having a good chat with Angel, who was usually brilliant at putting these kinds of things into perspective, but her friend was out all day and wasn’t returning until the small hours. Without Angel’s quips to cheer her up, Gemma was soon plummeting into a quagmire of despair and self-loathing.
“Don’t dwell on it,” had been Andi’s advice when Gemma had retold the Cal incident for about the ninth time. “You’ll only end up bitter and twisted.”
Quite frankly, ending up bitter and twisted had been top of Gemma’s list of things to do next – but if Andi, who had been seriously dumped on from a vast height by wanker-who-couldn’t-act-for-toffee Tom, could manage to rise above it all and still have a kind word and a smile for everyone, Gemma supposed she ought to give it her best shot too. This attitude had lasted for about five minutes before she’d cracked. Surely there had to be a man out there who didn’t think she was a joke? She’d almost weakened and sent Nick a text but luckily had stopped herself in time. Texts, after all, cost twenty-five pence each and she really didn’t want to spend another penny on him. Besides, his new Twiglet-like girlfriend would probably just delete it. Instead Gemma had worked her way through an entire block of cheese and loaf of Mother’s Pride, which swelled her billowing midriff like something out of a sci-fi movie and made her feel even worse. When she’d been delighted to see two Jehovah’s Witnesses – lost en route to the farmhouse – Gemma had realised that she’d hit a new low, and decided it was time to take action.
Finally, tired of fermenting in a fug of wine and self-destruction, Gemma had showered and, with the help of Angel’s impressive make-up collection, transformed herself from a pink-eyed, puffy-cheeked wreck into somebody who looked slightly less like the undead. Then she’d pulled on a pair of leggings and her favourite blue smock, which skimmed her fat bits, and set off for town. Almost as though they had a mind of their own, her legs had carried her up Rock Road and towards the quirky side street where Rock Cakes was situated. One latte, a saffron bun and a chat with Dee later, Gemma had found herself wearing a pinny and setting to work on a coffee cake.
“Your sponge sold out in twenty minutes,” Dee told her as they sat in the small courtyard, sunning themselves in butterscotch-coloured light and munching delicious warm-from-the-oven buns. “We could have sold it ten times over. You’re very talented.”
Gemma flushed with pleasure. “I don’t know about that. I just enjoy baking.”
Dee gave her a stern look. “Don’t put yourself down. That’s not a quality that will get you anywhere in this life. What you need to do is smile graciously and say ‘thank you’. Go on, try it.”
She gulped. In her ears she could hear her mother’s voice. “Don’t be a show-off, Gemma. Nobody likes a show-off.” Lord, but her mother’s conditioning was a menace, especially if you wanted to be an actress and your entire career was based on what was essentially “showing off”. No wonder she kept on screwing up.
“Come on,” urged Dee. “What’s wrong with standing up and being proud of what you can achieve?”
Gemma hung her head. “It just feels wrong, like showing off or something,” she mumbled.
“Showing off?” The older woman looked despairing. “Is that how you really see it? Listen to me, I worked on the trading floor of a City bank for all for my twenties and most of my thirties, and if I hadn’t learned to point out how bloody good I was at my job then all those City boys would have twanged their braces and stamped all over me.”
Gemma stared at her. Dee, with her Joules frock, Crocs and neatly bobbed hair, looked nothing like Gordon Gekko – unless “greed is good” referred to cakes?
“So I had my chin up, drew attention to what I was good at and made a fortune,” Dee continued. “When I was forty-two I was able to quit my job, divorce my useless husband and move with the children down here and set up my own business as a life coach. I did that for three years and then I decided I wanted a total change. Cake-making was my hobby and I was always making them for friends, so I evaluated my strengths and weakness, saw an enterprise opening and well, here we are. Two years ago we were appointed to make a pre-wedding cake for William and Kate and, between you and me, another royal christening one is on the cards too.”
“Wow,” said Gemma, impressed. This made running away to a tatty caravan in a field look a bit crap.
But Dee shook her head. “No, nothing ‘wow’ about it. Just hard work, determination and standing up for myself. If you put yourself down why shouldn’t anyone else do the same? You’ve set the precedent after all. Independence, Gemma: that’s the key for every woman. Independence and self-respect.”
It all made perfect sense when put like this. If Gemma thought she was fat and stupid and not worth hanging out with, then who was going to argue? Not Chloe, not Nick, not Emily and certainly not Callum bloody South.
“Yes, I’m an amazing baker. Thank you,” she said, and actually once the words were out they seemed to become solid and real and utterly believable. Wow. Maybe there was something in all that cosmic ordering stuff after all? She made a mental note to try it out at once.
Dee’s smile was as
wide as the Camel Estuary. “Fantastic! Keep that up and you’ll soon be super confident. Every day, stand in front of the mirror, focusing on all your best features, and tell yourself just how amazing you are.”
Gemma wasn’t convinced about this for a couple of reasons: a) her horror of standing in front of mirrors was on a par with Dracula’s; and b) she was struggling to think of a best feature in the singular, never mind the plural.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Dee admitted, “but these positive affirmations really do work. And look at it this way, what have you got to lose?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“And everything to gain!” Dee declared. “And because you are indeed an amazing baker, I’d really like to offer you some work.”
The older woman’s admiration had been warmer than the sunshine and a balm to Gemma’s wounded pride. Before long Gemma had found herself agreeing to work for Dee three days a week and had quickly settled into the rhythm of her new job. One week later and it was now second nature to get up at daybreak, walk the mile into town and get baking. It certainly beat festering in the caravan and torturing herself over Callum bloody South.
So maybe it wasn’t the glittering acting career she’d been hoping for, Gemma thought that morning as she cracked six eggs into a large bowl and began to fold them into flour and sugar, but there was something therapeutic about beating ingredients together and creating light-as-air sponges. Piping icing into elaborate swirls was also very satisfying, and yesterday she’d delighted a six-year-old with a Peppa Pig cake. Just recalling the wide-eyed amazement on the little girl’s face gave Gemma a thrill. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite as highbrow as Shakespeare or Pinter, but there was creativity to this nonetheless which really appealed to her.
[Escape 01.0] Escape for the Summer Page 18